James Nelson - The Blackbirder

Elizabeth backed up, crawling away at an oblique angle from the man. She could hear him kicking out, trying to locate her with his feet and his slashing sword and she crawled back until there was no place left to crawl. The lantern was resting on her thigh and through her petticoats she could feel it start to burn her. She did not know where Billy was, if he was still alive or not.

A step closer, and the man was flailing with the blade and with another step or another he would find her. She was up against the wainscot now. She gripped the lantern hard, ready to crash it into his knees when he took another step.

Then the side door burst open again and more men rushed in, making no attempt to be quiet, and Elizabeth froze and her attacker froze and no one knew who they were, or who they were for.

A voice in the darkness. “Billy Bird? Where the fuck are you?”

Elizabeth jumped to her feet, broke left, stepping sideways, her back against the wall, and when she was sure she was beyond the reach of the man’s sword she pulled the lantern out from under her skirt and flipped the door open.

The hot steel burned her fingertips, and the yellow light that flooded out revealed five men: Billy Bird, still behind the pew; the big man gripping his stomach; the wiry one who had come after her, now turned toward this new threat.

And between them, swords drawn, Black Tom and Ezra Howland.

It might have been laughable, those five men standing frozen, motionless, trying to sort this thing out, were people not about to die.

And then the big man, heedless of his bleeding arm and belly, shouted, “Sons of bitches!” and tossed his sword aside. It hit the pine floor with a clatter, banging into the far row of pews, and Elizabeth thought he was surrendering when he reached under his coat and pulled out a pistol.

He raised it, thumbing the lock, and then Billy’s sword came down on his wrist in a spray of blood and the big man’s hand folded into an unnatural angle and he howled, dropped the gun, grabbed his wrist. Billy slammed him hard in the temple with the flat of his sword and the man slumped to the floor as if his bones had turned to ash.

The small man had seen enough. He wheeled around, bolted for the door, but Black Tom stepped toward him, kicked him in the shins and the man fell forward, sword flying from his hand, and came down hard on the floor, spread-eagle. Ezra Howland was there and he kicked the man hard in the head and he too was still.

Silence again, and then Billy Bird leapt over the pew and, to Elizabeth ’s surprise, shouted, “Where in hell have you been?” He did not sound grateful at all for the help. Grabbed Black Tom by the arm, pulled him close, face-to-face. “Breathe!” he demanded, and Black Tom puffed a breath in Billy’s face. Billy frowned in disgust and Elizabeth frowned in empathy. She would not care to smell Black Tom’s breath.

“Been at the damned tavern, haven’t you? When did it occur to you that we might go abroad again tonight?”

Black Tom stared at the floor, muttered something. He looked like a child caught in some infraction.

“Billy,” said Elizabeth, “I should think it a miracle that these men arrived in time to save us.”

“They were supposed to be watching at all times, but instead I have to cut these bastards down”-he indicated the two men on the floor- “single-handedly before they amble in. Good thing I am man enough to take on two or more at a time.”

“Well, now, it weren’t like we done nothing,” Howland protested.

Elizabeth shook her head. “You told these two to watch us? At all times?”

“Dear Lizzy, you would never believe me that this is a dangerous business. Lucky one of us was clever enough to see that our backsides were covered.” He glared at Tom and Ezra.

But Elizabeth, for her part, was far too relieved to be angry at the Bloody Revenges, late though their arrival may have been. She swept across the floor and gave each of the men a kiss on their hairy cheeks, as they in turn blushed and stammered.

“Right, well, let’s see what these sons of whores has that’s worth the taking,” Ezra Howland muttered, trying to cover his embarrassment. He knelt over the unconscious form of the smaller man, dug through the big pockets of his coat, while Black Tom retrieved the pistol and located a few coins in the pocket of the other.

“Nothing,” said Ezra. “A few rutting papers, that’s it.” Ezra was not the kind of man who could imagine a piece of paper being of any value.

“Let me see.” Billy Bird held out his hand, took the paper.

“Tom,” said Howland, “come on, then, let’s see if there’s anything down there, what we should have,” and with a jerk of his head he led Black Tom down the hall to Dunmore ’s office.

“Forgive them, Lizzy, plundering is quite in their soul. I would no more wish to try and stop it than I would try and stop a rutting bull.”

He held up the paper that Howland had handed him, angled it toward the light.

Elizabeth watched him read, watched his brows come together, his mouth form into a frown. “Son…of…a…bitch…” He let the words come out slow.

“What is it, Billy?” Elizabeth asked. “Here. Read this.” He handed the note over. Elizabeth let the light fall on the words and read.

Mr. Elephiant Jenkins The Golden Rooster Tavern Boston

Mr. Jenkins,

As you have been of Great Service to me in the past, let me Now call upon your Good Offices again to render me aid in a situation most unseemly.

There will arrive in Boston soon Two People who mean to do me most Grievous Injury by means of resurrecting such untruths from my past as they might endeavor to discover. They are a woman named Elizabeth Marlowe, aged around twenty-eight, with yellow hair and fine of feature, and most probably a man accompanying her whom you will discover. I am in no doubt that they will endeavor to Speak to the Reverend Wait Dunmore, my Father, at the Middle Street Church, and if you were to keep watch there you would discover them.

I have enclosed a bank draft to cover your expenses in an amount that I think you will find is Sufficient Payment for the task I request of you.

The last part she read out loud. “I wish that the said Elizabeth Marlowe and her companion should never leave the town of Boston, except that their immortal souls should join with their Maker in Providence. I think an accident of Drowning in the harbor the most conveniently understood demise. Your obedient, humble servant, Frederick Dunmore.”

She looked up, stunned. Along with the letter was a draft for one hundred pounds. The papers shook in her hand. “How very kind he is,” said Billy, “to wish our souls at eternal rest.”

“ ‘Aged about twenty-eight’?” Elizabeth said. “Do I look to be twenty-eight?”

“Lizzy, what a great kindness our dear Frederick has done us. Here we were, searching for incriminating papers, unable to find a one, and here he has had just the thing delivered right to us. Proof of his conspiring to see us murdered. I think we need look no further.”

And then from the dark, the click of a flintlock snapped into place. Elizabeth looked up, assumed it was one of the Revenges, but it was not.

It was the Reverend Wait Dunmore, standing in the door, just at the edge of the lantern’s reach. He looked ominous, frightening, in the deep shadows and flickering flame. He was hastily dressed, his long shirt only half tucked in, waistcoat unbuttoned, no wig to cover the bristle of hair on his head. The light of the single lantern served to deepen and accentuate the lines in his face, the heavy jowls and folds of skin around his eyes.

Dunmore held the gun out, pointed at Billy Bird’s heart. Behind him, sweating, looking nervous, the night watch fiddled with his short club.